The Portrait
by A.Garbo
Summary: One-Shot about Severus Snape portrait at his house in Spinner's End.


There is this abandoned house somewhere in the suburbs of London. It's dusty and light wouldn't come in from the windows. The little living room hadn't much space and most of it was severely occupied by shelves with old books. There rests an arm chair in green leather that once belonged to the master of that house and beside it a pile of newspapers carefully pilled.  
The curtains were parted and as the sunset took place, you could see the whole building coming to life. A forgotten dry seed in a vase inside the house would become the most shinny and beautiful of the roses, lilies and daffodils would narcissistically pop up from the little flowerbeds outside.  
Then birds would fly in pirouettes and turns, floating and the breeze would lead them to the garden and make the old house live like it never lived before.  
But, dear fellows and respective hearts and eyes, shall we put our attentions to what really matters? Come! Let us know the tale of the soul who once lived there, not for pleasure but because he never knew other home.  
As petals in red roses started to bloom and open themselves to the world, another kind of phenomenon would take place.  
In the old dusty living room, there was a portrait, yet ordinary it was not. The man so carefully depicted there, could move.  
He wasn't old or young. The portrait would give you, my companion and friend, the illusion of agelessness. He would only age if you approached his face white as immaculate snow. Then, my friend, you would see some wrinkles on his forehead, the corner of his lips, the line that marked his square chin. You would also notice that he looks quite tired and sad. There is these dark circles around his eyes which tell stories of many sleepless nights and much to think about rather than waste time, sleeping. His eyes are black as the night and sad as the corpse of a baby who did not even take his first breath but hypnotising even the hardly impressed. The eye brows often gave him a fierce expression, as if he was someone ready for battle and a very brave man. Perhaps the bravest you would ever know. The nose is aquiline and well shaped as if it was carefully carved. Mock not his big nose, for it suits and balances his fetching face. He had such a serious and enraged semblance and yet you could know he was just sad and plunged into tranquillity. Wounds caused by Love himself, no doubt, would have surely pierced his darkened heart. Oh, but you see fair reader; the most tempting of his features would be his fair, thin, lifeless lips. You would think they never managed to smile but, if a lady you would be, I bet you would hardly resist waking them from their death with a fine, long lasting, loving kiss.  
He had hair as black and as silky as the raven's feathers. He looked like one too, looking at his robes. The coat, which would cover his legs to his knees, is filled with buttons. It has a very dark plum colour. Around his neck he has a tie of the same colour to conceal a white collar of his shirt. On his shoulders, there is a thin cloak and clearly indicates he has some sort of scholar position thus conferring him and his strong and tall body, a highly elegant look. His hands are inviting, well took after. Such crafty hands can't be otherwise. And they move quite becomingly, with all their majesty.

Intelligence emanates from his constant poise. Cunning traits populate his face. Ah, good reader, if you could only see the fair and heroic end Death gave him! The Dark Lady would have grasped and ripped her eyes off if she could only see her Creation. Dear reader, you would crown him Prince with glorious laurels, and let his grace shine upon your face that you would keep in such hands as yours, for a Prince he is, regardless of the poor, sad face.  
And here he is, the Eternal Dark Prince, reading the same book in a painted armchair, with no one around to keep him company after a long day in a crowded castle. He can have bit of silence, at last, after the long treacherous day. He's there, neither a care in a world or pain; nor something to learn. His time was over and tomorrow would be another day, travelling from portrait to portrait. That was all that was left. The Prince could finally rest.


End file.
